Cat and Mouse
by drjohnmfwatson
Summary: Jim Moriarty has Sherlock Holmes.  What could they get up to?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Sorry it stops kind of abruptly. There is more after this. So R&R and be gentle x3

I stepped forward, surveying my surroundings as I crept cautiously onward, feeling only a biting curiosity. The meeting place had been chosen and agreed upon without any real contact; I had stated the location and without a word or missive back I knew that he would be here. Waiting for me.

A skittering noise reached my ears and I halted, stopping my breath in order to better listen. When no footsteps accompanied the sound I relaxed slightly, continuing my confident pace forward, throwing only cursory glances toward the stacked and rotting crates that had been forgotten long ago.

Footprints in the dust; there was little use in bending and measuring the tracks. They had been left recently and I did not have to know accurately the smallish prints to surmise that they belonged to the man I had come to seek.

The floor boards squeaked beneath my tread and I glanced up at the window that allowed a shaft of light to skip along my path. I sneezed at all the dust suddenly disturbed after all these years of lying dormant and as I took another step forward I was met with an eerie, disembodied voice that seemed to wrap all round me.

"Now, I _really_ wouldn't do that," the voice said cheerfully, echoing and bouncing off the walls, coming back to me so distorted that I could not judge accurately the direction from which it first emanated.

"You aren't going to come out, then?" I asked, stopping and turning about myself; it was likely he could be behind me, waiting to sneak up on me while I was distracted. All I could see, however, were crates and discarded boxes and I turned to face forward again with a frown. "Content to hide in the shadows?"

"I'd prefer you come to me."

"I thought you said you wouldn't do that…" I said cautiously, and even though I could not see the man I knew that a smile was twisting his words as he spoke them.

"_I _wouldn't-"

"You would," I said with certainty.

"Ok, I would," he said agreeably, and after a small pause, "and so would you. But don't say I didn't warn you."

I wondered at his words, attempting to discover the danger that he hinted at. If he was to shoot me he would have done it already, and he most likely would not have said anything to tempt me forward. What then?

The floorboard creaked ominously beneath me as I moved forward slowly and I stopped, looking quickly about myself. To the right a spot had rotted through, or had the boards _fallen_ through? There, to the left, a similar area. How long had the warehouse been in disrepair? How long had it been left abandoned to fall into shambles?

I had not considered this factor and I cursed myself, making a wild leap forward, attempting to reach a safe point on the floor level. My bound only had the opposite desired effect, however, and upon landing the boards gave way beneath me without even so much as a warning shudder, dropping down and leaving me to clutch agilely at the wooden planks before me.

My gloved fingers caught the ragged edges of the floor for just a moment and then I was slipping down, down.

I blinked heavy lids, wondering if I had dozed off upon the couch once more. Is that why I felt so strange? But no-when I fell asleep on the seat my neck was stiff and my legs usually felt a bit cramped from hanging over the edges-this was entirely different. My head throbbed painfully and I hissed at the sensation, forcing myself to look around and remember what it was that I had been doing _where_ I had been to force me to feel such a way.

Wrists. My wrists…were tied together. I couldn't see what-I could have glanced up and discovered the item but I did not want the extra pain the motion would bring. No, I believed it was…well, I was nearly certain it was rope from the texture, and whoever had done it had tied it tight enough to bring an additional pain upon me. It didn't matter; I would push it from my mind as that would be the least of my worries.

I was standing, not sitting. Interesting. I was not up against a wall but rather in the middle of a small room so that I had to be attached to some hanging hook, and I frowned at my surroundings, somewhat puzzled. I could not discern if I was still in the warehouse or not as the room was entirely devoid of any decorations or human touches; it was simply wall after wall of pure cement.

"I did warn you," the voice said, pleased, and I rolled my eyes, trying to manoeuvre around the cloth in my mouth that currently served as a gag. I was less worried about the fact that I was trussed up than disgruntled over the realisation that I was gagged and it was my _scarf_ that was silencing me. I groaned aloud, a mixture of pain and the exasperation that it was my own blundering that had dropped me into this role of vulnerability and I struggled slightly, attempting and failing to work one of my wrists free.

"You're that pleased to see me?" he asked gleefully, still allowing himself to keep to the shadows so that I could not clearly make him out.

Of course. I have nowhere better to be than in some tiny room with my arms stretched above my head. It was _certainly _more appealing than having Mrs. Hudson sigh and complain about the state I had left the kitchen in and _certainly _preferable to sitting upon the seat for hours on end, wondering if something would come along and snap me from my boredom.

"Perhaps I ought to take this, hm? It's not as much fun talking and not letting you respond, is it?"

And then he was in front of me, reaching for the scarf. Instinctively I leaned away from him; of course I didn't want the fabric in my mouth; I liked it but I liked having it round my neck, not jammed in my mouth! No, I did not want him any closer than necessary; one could hardly trust someone who had killed countless people and who currently delighted in keeping one prisoner.

"Moriarty," I spat after he had wound the cloth away from me and the man offered me a hurt expression at my words, a look I strongly believed to be fake.

"Really, don't you think we know each other well enough to go on first name basis? Moriarty?" he scrunched up his nose at his own surname. "Too formal. Call me Jim and I'll call you Sherlock."

"I'm sorry formality wasn't my top priority," I said wryly, and he looked slightly amused at my response.

"Here, let me look at it," Jim said suddenly, and although he did not specify to what he was referring I could tell by his casual gaze that he meant the inevitable wound upon my right temple and I frowned at his request.

"Somehow I doubt you would be all that helpful."

"I'm _huuurt_," he announced, bringing his lips together and drawing his brow down in a pout, "I've _played_ doctor before, though I much prefer maid."

I tried to move away again but he was already too close, touching a hand to my face and laughing as I cringed. "Hurts, does it?" he asked softly, searching my face for a moment before snarling, "Get used to the pain!"

He grabbed a tuftful of my hair, pulling upon it sharply before releasing just as quickly as he had snatched it and I fought to keep my expression neutral. His action did not surprise me; I had been waiting for him to do something wantonly cruel and he had not disappointed me. Even as he stepped back, allowing me a little space he was not regretful of his action; he had probably enjoyed it; had restrained himself, even.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked neutrally, careful not to sound bored; to sound bored was dangerous as he might take it as a personal challenge to change my tone to something more appropriate to his ears. I could not sound cheerful either; a bland neutrality, then.

"I wanted some alone time."

"That much is apparent," I responded quickly, once more attempting to tug at least one of my wrists free and he watched me, curious.

"I wanted to taaalk to you; we haven't had a chance to talk…" he said almost regretfully and I frowned at his words.

"Our schedules have not quite aligned," I said dryly, "You having people murdered on Wednesday, me helping the Yard with a case on Thursday…"

"Lucky I made the time for both of us, hm?" he mused, reaching out dragging his fingers almost absentmindedly down my stomach, thankfully above my shirt and I shuddered, shrinking away from his touch.

"You're still not talking," I pointed out and he smiled, resting his hand upon my stomach a moment longer before withdrawing, leaving me to feel the warmth of his fingertips.

"What should we talk about? No government or political issues-I always find the issues too divisive," he joked, but I could not find the humour in the situation.

"Let's not talk about how you plan to kill me; that subject has been done to…well, death."

Jim waved his hand dismissively. "And a little dull, wouldn't you say? I'm going to boil you alive, I'm going to drown you, I'm going to bake you into a cake and eat you, blah blah blah…"

"No one's ever threatened to eat me before."

"Oh, that's a new one?" Jim pondered this revelation before shrugging. "You haven't any helpful suggestions for me, do you? No? You don't have to be shy _here,_ Sherlock."

When he reached for my face I leaned away once more and he dropped his hand, watching me wriggle in place, amusement creeping onto his features. "Have you given any thought to dancing?" he trilled, tilting his head as he observed me. "You do have a supple form…"

"I am not dancing with you," I said, annoyed. Absurdity; I was talking to him about dancing even as I was rooted to this spot, unable to move very far without difficulty and some pain.

Jim once more pouted at my words. "Well, not _now,_ no, of course not; don't be silly. I'd have to lead; I don't like leading, not in dancing," he winked at me and I ignored the gesture, pleased at the frustrated expression that crossed his face, yet he continued anyway. "The tango, however, would suit you."

I ignored him then, pretending that he was not even in the room, pretending that I was at home and lost in some problem and after a moment he left, using some door behind me that I could not see. He flicked off the lights as he departed and the all-encompassing darkness pressed down upon me, nearly smothering me with its oppressive thickness.

I could not begin to judge the time that passed. I was hungry, and thirsty besides, yet I had denied myself food for over a day before this excursion, attempting to settle my full focus on the case at hand. The only sounds that reached my ears were sounds that I myself made, all uncomfortable sighs and grumblings to myself on what an idiot I had been.

My hands alternated between a tingling that crept gradually into numbness and a pain that shifted depending on how much weight I allowed the hook to absorb and I shuffled my feet, attempting to find a more comfortable position in my limited options.

I dozed; there was little else I could do and as I slipped into a deeper sleep I felt the slightest sensation upon my right cheek, snapping me back into consciousness as though I had been slapped.

Jim was standing before me, glancing at me with narrowed eyes and I knew he had drawn his hand, perhaps just a finger, along my cheek to break my slumber. "You looked like you were dead just now; I didn't think you were breathing."

"Isn't that what you want?"

His eyes widened as he fixed me with an expression I usually saved for Anderson. "Yes, _of course. _But where is the fun in _that? _I go out to take care of some business and I come back and you've gone and died while I was out answering mail? Big waste of time-on both our parts, I suppose, but more importantly a waste of _my _effort, of course."

"Does it take much effort sticking someone onto a hook?" I mused, wondering at how thick my tongue was in my mouth. Dehydration? I didn't know-I wasn't the doctor.

"Well, no. But you work with what you have at hand," he said casually, setting down the bag that he had in his arms and he disappeared once more, reappearing with a rather small table and a matching white chair, which he plopped down directly in front of me.

Jim sat in the seat and propped his legs up upon the table, grinning at me as he shook a box of Chinese food in the air. "It isn't the _best_ but it'll do, I suppose."

It had been mid-afternoon when I had gone to the warehouse; I had not planned to stay long. If Jim was eating food, eating Chinese, it was not morning. It would have to be evening, then, or afternoon of the next day. In the time that had passed he had switched from his grey suit to a darker blue one that better brought out his eyes and I could smell the after-shave on him, mingling with the food he had purchased.

"You look dreadful," he said happily, daintily eating at his noodles and I glowered at him.

"And you are short."

"Keeping your observational skills sharp, are you? Would you like me to play I spy with you-"

"No."

"I spy with my liiiiittle eye, this one, here-"

"I'm not playing."

"Something…grey," he said, and I stared at him. "What! It is a little more difficult than you would imagine to be creative here, unless you would like me to use _you_ as a subject," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye, one that made me look away.

"Suit yourself; I was only trying to help. I can't imagine how _boring_ it must be, stuck here with nothing to do but stare at the walls or stand around in darkness; it must be fairly maddening."

I ignored him; I would not give him the opportunity to taunt me further and instead I concentrated upon the pain in my legs, which had been building steadily. I needed to sit and stretch them properly; they ached from lack of movement and the position I had been forced into and I winced involuntarily, shuffling once again although the action afforded me little relief.

Jim abandoned his meal, sneaking closer to me and regarding me with a strange curiosity before his hand was on my left knee. Mostly innocuous, but I knew the gesture would not last long and moments later he was gripping my thigh, curling his fingers as he rubbed it once, twice even as I tensed and tried to draw away from him. "Hurts from standing, doesn't it?" he asked, and I knew he cared little if I was in pain or not; would probably _prefer_ that I hurted and that I showed some physical distress in front of him.

"Y-yes," I said despite myself, cursing the inadvertent stammer as it left my mouth. He was in a sensitive area to begin with, and should he have moved his fingers only slightly to the right I would have become even more helpless within his care.

He withdrew, almost as though he could read my thoughts and he once more held his food up at me, grinning. "I have always wanted to feed someone Chinese."

"I'm not hungry," I lied, and he blinked.

"I don't remember asking if you were."

"I don't want it," I said firmly.

"I don't care what you want, obviously," he chirped, standing before me. Briefly I contemplated kicking him fiercely, revelling in whatever brief pain I could bring him but I rejected this idea, knowing that the slim joy I would get from dispensing some of my frustration would pale in comparison to the retribution he would undoubtedly mete out from such an action. Judging by the smile he offered me, he knew exactly what decision I mulled and already knew my conclusion before I had even come to it. "Just be glad the worst of our disagreements is over me feeding you; I could attempt to dress you in an outfit that _I_ like."

Jim produced a sugary roll, twisting it enticingly before me and despite my misgivings I wanted it and I watched hungrily as he tore off a chunk, pausing reflectively before me.

"Is it too old and clichéd if I simply eat in front of you? Needlessly cruel, yes, but very basic too. Plus all of these carbs…" he made a face.

"Watching your figure?"

"I don't have to do much of that," Jim preened, "You, on the other hand, I can see turning to fat if you're not careful. No one will want the great Sherlock Holmes if he's tipping the scales at fifteen stone," he reached out, poking me in the stomach lightly.

"Not a vast change over present conditions," I remarked, and he toyed with the bread.

"Welllll…I don't know about that," he said easily, holding the chunk of food in front of my mouth.

I hesitated.

"It isn't _poisoned_…I'm feeling lazy today. What…you don't trust me?" he looked at me, wide-eyed.

"Forgive me," I muttered dryly, "You've given me no reason _not_ to."

Jim nibbled on the tidbit, then held it up to me again, pressing it to my lips and I accepted it, eating quickly, warily. He broke off another piece, offering it to me and I resisted the urge to bite him, once more unwilling to accept any punishment he might dole out. This time he ran his finger along my lips, causing me to tense at his action.

"You're being _good,_" he remarked, somewhat surprised, and I was annoyed.

I was not a pet.

The next morsel he pushed forward and suddenly his fingers were in my mouth. I locked eyes with him and he wriggled a brow at me, gaze otherwise serious and I found myself tentatively licking along the length of one of his digits. When he had withdrawn he reached his hand up to brush against my cheek and I pulled away once more, attempting to avoid his touch.

"You like this," he said and I decided to ignore him, not speaking as he walked to the table, pacing leisurely before returning to me, "You're gonna talk to me sooome tiiiiime," he trilled, rocking on his heels in front of me.

"I could go days without speaking; I have done so before," I said and he shrugged, hands buried in his pockets.

"But you won't," he remarked with some certainty and I scowled. I didn't have to ask why he thought this way; I should be _frightened_ of him or at the very least _intimidated_ by him, by what he has done in the past and what he is capable of in the future but I was _bored. _Wouldn't you be? There is very little to do when one is forced to stand in one spot for hours on end; I didn't even have a telly to occupy myself with.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I was pleasantly surprised!

Jim offered me noodles held deftly with his chopsticks but as he held it out one dropped onto my shirtfront, dribbling some sauce on the clothing. "Clumsy!" he said, and at once I could tell by his tone that he had dropped the food on purpose, "Better remove that shirt before it sets and stains!"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, because the state of my clothing is the pressing matter at hand," I remarked and he chose to overlook my statement, puzzling instead over the predicament of his previous statement. With my arms stretched above my head he could hardly remove my jacket and then my shirt-not unless he planned to untie me to do so.

When the dim light glinted off the small knife that he had produced without a word I began to feel the first stirrings of real fear-a fear which was only magnified as he held the weapon aloft. For a moment we balanced on the edge as he did nothing and then he was slicing through my dress shirt, cutting through my undershirt effortlessly with what was obviously a rather sharp blade as I winced instinctively, preparing myself to feel the knife tearing into my flesh next.

Instead he pulled off my now shredded clothing, leaving my jacket alone, carelessly throwing the shirts into the corner, clutching the knife in his teeth as he did so. "I thought you were worried about my clothing getting ruined," I pointed out as he removed his knife.

"Oh, I liiied," he chirped, and I was scarcely surprised, "I decided to drop the pretense and it isn't as though your taste is _exceptional, _is it?" he asked, scrunching up his face at the question he posed to me.

"We can't all have your good sense," I said, and he nodded.

"To be fair, though, you _do_ have a bit more sense than does your John. Jumpers? Every day? How old did you say he was, seventy-five?"

I smiled before I realised it, and before I could retract the expression Jim had matched it.

"Oops! Made Sherlock smile, mustn't do _thaaat._"

I looked away, trying to focus my mind on anything but where I was. It was a game of cat and mouse, really; Jim hadn't done anything to me, hadn't killed me yet because he _enjoyed _the power he held over me. He could feed me or let me starve; he could pull my hair or stroke my cheek; he could leave me to rot or keep a close eye on me-whatever _he_ decided would be what took place.

He cleared his throat, then, breaking into my thoughts and reminding me that he was still here, that he was the _only_ person here. Briefly I wondered if anyone was looking for me. Lestrade? Did he have a case he wanted to run past me? Maybe. John? Would he think I simply had darted in and out of the flat while he was out and about on his own errands?

More likely than not he was enjoying the respite he was getting from me; no texting him, no asking him to pass me things, no trying to use his laptop before he pried me away from it.

As if prompted by my mind, my mobile went off in my coat pocket, startling the both of us. Of course Jim reached up, fishing it out gracefully. "To be honest, I'm amazed we have service out here," he muttered, more to himself than anything before returning his attention to the phone, "Ah, speaking of John…"

I tensed. "What does the message say?"

"He says he has fallen madly for you and wishes to know when you'll be home so he can prove it," Jim said, straight-faced for only a moment before laughing to himself, "Wouldn't _that_ be interesting? Actually, you know, that sounds like an idea…"

"Don't message him back…" I said wearily as he began to quickly move his fingers over the keys.

"Too late," he said happily, glancing up at me to gauge my reaction.

"What did you send?" I asked, fairly suspicious that I knew already what he had texted.

"What? Oh, just what I told you earlier, obviously reversed so as to be coming from you," he said, clearly amused by what he had done, even moreso when the phone presently jingled. "…'What'? Is Johnny thick? Do you keep him round to make yourself look good?"

"No!" I hissed and Jim shrugged.

"I don't mind; I keep a few idiots around myself. Who doesn't like to look better? The only problem is they're frustrating to manage-"

"John is not a complete idiot," I repeated firmly, and Jim rattled off a reply, receiving one back almost instantly. "What does it say?"

"He wants to know if you're drunk."

"Yes."

"That would be a _lie,_" Jim said sternly. "No, perfectly sober…but drunk on love for you. Cheesy? …A bit cheesy, but I suspect he adores that sort of sentimentality."

I said nothing, slightly irritated because I suspected that he was correct, and slightly irritated at John for making himself such an easy target for the other man.

"Oh, now he's asking where you are…he's not seen you all day and you've not texted; touching. Oops! Service was lost," Jim said easily, flicking my phone to rest on my tattered clothing, so near yet so utterly out of my grasp it might as well be halfway across the earth.

"I can't stay here forever," I pointed out and he blinked owlishly.

"Of course not; this is only for my own amusement until I grow tired," he remarked, and though he had not meant it in that fashion I thought of how much wrists ached and how desperately I wanted to sit to rest my legs. Exposed as I was I shivered, noticing the raised bumps on my skin, shuffling once more as though that might somehow warm up my front.

Jim had once more turned his back on me, now at the table and drinking from a pricey, popular brand of bottled water and I could not take my eyes off the object. I was hardly a wanderer in a desert but I wished desperately to have a drink, reminded of how thick my tongue was and aware now of a headache that was blossoming behind my eyes.

"It's impolite to stare," Jim remarked, turning to face me. "Ohhh…you _want _something."

I didn't respond; I didn't have to. Already he was returning to me, tapping his chin and glancing upward as though he was trying to puzzle out what I might desire. "Is Sherlock…_thirsty?_ I'll let you have some water."

Instantly I was on alert. If Jim was offering me water, there had to be a catch; perhaps he would waterboard me for the fun of it. "No, thank you…" I said, even as every fibre within me urged me to say yes.

Jim pouted. "You didn't even hear my proposal!"

"What is it?" I asked, curiosity immediately getting the better of me as he held the bottle up.

"You can have a sip…"

"If…?" There was an 'if' to this agreement; I could see it on his face, hear it in his voice. "If what?"

"If I kiss you."

"_No._" I said, emphatically so. He was _insane,_ although his proposal had hardly surprised me. I had known which way his sexual proclivities tended from the very instant I met him, and he had hardly been secretive in his mannerisms when touching my face or feeding me. He had removed a good portion of my clothing, in fact, on a rather flimsy excuse moments earlier-no, I was not _surprised._

"Look, you like logic-let's look at this logically," Jim said, shaking the bottle at me slightly, "I'm going to do what I want, including in regards to you. Wouldn't you like some tradeoff? Wouldn't you like a sip for each quick peck? You can say no, I don't care; I'll just dump out the water and kiss you anyway."

"Ok."

"What? You'll have to speak up."

"I said ok," I said, and he unscrewed the cap, holding the bottle up to my lips. I would have attempted to gulp in as much as I could manage but he was anticipating this action on my part and quickly pulled it away so that I felt as though I had only wet my lips.

Kissing was something I witnessed only when John roped me into watching some of his programmes and when I stood on the corner, noticing couples as I waited for my cab. It was a part of daily life that did not really affect me; it was sloppy, strange, and left one vulnerable. I was perfectly fine going about my day without participating in this little ritual of humanity, and I easily brushed away John's incredulity on the subject.

This was a confrontation I could do little to avoid, however, and I simply braced myself, repeating internally that I would have to endure it for a few seconds and it would be over. I was right, of course; when Jim gave me the agreed upon kiss I pressed my lips firmly shut, doing nothing to encourage him and when he pulled away I could read in his disgruntled expression that he was less than pleased.

_Good. _For once I could hold the upper hand.

Once more he offered me a sip and I took it, thirsty as ever. He was less stingy than before, however, and I had little time to steel myself when he pulled the bottle away, kissing me once more. It came as little surprise that he was more forceful this time, pushing against me, leaning against me to better diminish the difference between our height and I was not shocked that he tried to force me to open my lips. I refused, or at least I did so until he jabbed me sharply in the side, taking me off guard and using the moment against me.

I was angry, and thought once more of biting him before dispelling the idea. Jim was unexpectedly tentative but I still pulled my head back, annoyed and flustered at the same time. "Water," I said, and though he would never admit it I could see he was amused at my making demands of him.

I had to say something, because I felt, absurdly so, that if I remained silent Jim would be able to see through me. He would be able to recognise some visible sign that indicated I had begun to feel a strange, betraying glow in my stomach and a confusion on several levels. Stockholm. I certainly had it, didn't I? I wasn't just _talking _with my captor-I was _kissing_ him! I was doing it for water, however; did that make it all right? Or did that nearly make a pseudo prostitute? A prostitute for a bottle of water? A _cheap_ prostitute. Would I be a prostitute for kissing? Probably not-

"Are you going to take a sip or not?" Jim asked, definitely amused, and I realised I had become lost in my own jumbled, whirring thoughts even as he had held the bottle up to my lips for who knew how long. I took a swig and then Jim's lips were on my own.

This one was different than the previous two, which I noted as I parted my lips for him. I tilted my head down to better meet him instead of squirming, straining to put distance between us. He was obviously more experienced than I, and we wrestled for a moment before he trailed his mouth to my jaw line, kissing me repeatedly and far more softly than I could have imagined him capable of.

I thought of the water and nearly made mention of it-I could hardly count this as one kiss-but then let it go, curious to see what was going to take place. He bit my ear, sharply, and I knew that he did it simply because he _could_ and I kept silent on this as well, unwilling to goad him into possibly worse and more damaging behaviour.

He returned to my mouth, dragging his teeth lightly along my lip before pressing into me and I ignored the faint warning my mind was offering me as I shoved back at him. As if from far away I realised he was now attempting to unbutton my trousers and I pulled my head back, trying to look down at him from a better angle. "Wait, my-stop!"

Jim grinned at me. "You can't say you don't want it…well, I guess you can say anything you like; I'll just know it isn't true."

"No! Jim!"

He ignored me, of course, and easily undid my trousers. When he fiddled with my undergarment and I felt air on my skin I looked away, flush rising to my face in striking embarrassment.

"Well! No wonder Johnny is your friend!" Jim tittered to himself, and I was about to make some snide comment in response when his hand closed around me and I hissed in surprise.

"What-"

"You don't expect me to believe you don't know what it is I'm doing now…otherwise I will have gravely misjudged your intelligence," he said, manoeuvring now so that he was behind me so that I could not see him, could not read his expression.

"I didn't mean-" I broke off pre-emptively, cutting short my sentence so as not to stutter, not to reveal to him how his touch had affected me.

"Shut up or you'll take the fun out of this," he whispered, breath hot on my neck as he touched his lips to my skin and I shuddered, briefly wondering if he was stretching on his toes to be able to reach me.

His fingers were soft and cool upon me or perhaps they felt that way in my heated state as I tried to keep my wits in control. This lasted for a moment or two until I began to give into his firm, persistent stroking, my body shifting of its own volition to match the rhythm that Jim set, acutely aware of the pressure building within me.

It was _torture. _Exquisite, unyielding torture and I wriggled in place to his amusement.

"Pity you weren't a little _shorter; _things would be a great deal easier!"

He had wrapped one arm lightly around me, just above my waist as though he needed to hold me still and I lost coherency, unable to make a jab about his own height as I tilted my head back, leaning into him. What I did manage was an indecipherable babbling, and I knew by the way his voice sounded as he spoke that he was grinning.

"You'll have to be more clear than _that,_ Sherlock…Although I fancy I have a general idea of what you mean," he remarked, moving his hand a fraction faster up and down my length so that I shuddered, biting down on my lip to avoid making any undignified noises at the sensation. I rose up to match his rapidity then, struggling to hold on, and I did admirably until I felt him stand straighter, taller behind me. He touched the very tip of his tongue to my neck, curling it upward slightly and I was pushed over the edge.

I refrained, thankfully, from shouting out any names yet I was still left with a heavy embarrassment at the situation as I quivered from the after-effects. Jim peered around me before stepping in front of me, wiping his hand with what was no doubt an monogrammed handkerchief before throwing it casually down.

"I need a new handkerchief now," he said reproachfully before partially restoring me to my normal state of dress; my shirts were irreparable and would remain where he had thrown them. I was uncomfortably sticky and I avoided his eyes, unsure of what I might see there.

He walked around me again and I tried to turn my head to watch him, wary. Sharp pain ran through my wrists and so I stood still again, trying to shift my weight to give a brief respite to my aching wrists as I heard the door open behind me.

"You're going?"

"Yeeeees, Sherlock. Some of us have to work to put food on the table, my dear," he murmured, clicking the lights off and leaving me once more in darkness. "I hope you're not afraid of the daaark," he said happily, closing the door and extinguishing the faint sliver of light that crept in from the outside as he did so.

The silence I stood in only magnified my ragged breathing and I exhaled slowly, regaining control over myself. Would I be trapped here indefinitely? No, surely not; I would gnaw through my own arms than be bound for an extended length of time. I could only barely manage the time I had already spent; the pain in my limbs had turned to an ache that was not unlike a toothache-it was a discomforting pain, a lingering, ever-present pain that you dealt with or took action upon.

I exhaled through my teeth, shifting my weight again as a jingle cut through the silence. My glance drifted toward my torn and discarded clothing and a dim glow lit a small, surrounding area in the corner. My mobile, then. I stared in its direction, listening as someone attempted to make contact with me not once but three times and I rolled my eyes.

Most likely my brother Mycroft. He assumed if I did not answer the first time that I was merely ignoring him and if he continued to harass me his persistence would pay off. Usually I was impatient enough that it _did_ or I switched it to silent or occupied myself so that I could ignore it, but this time I could not.

He attempted again and again and this time I wished that I _could_ reach my phone; for once I quite _wanted _to speak with him. All at once, however, the tinny little melody quit and after a few moments the glow faded, dimming gradually until I was brought back to darkness once more and I was left with the realisation that I was entirely alone.


End file.
